


The Truth Smells like Asphalt

by barelydwarven



Series: Good Things Happen Bingo [6]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: "Kindness from a stranger", Gen, Good Things Happen Bingo, vigilante sidestep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 11:13:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19004617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barelydwarven/pseuds/barelydwarven
Summary: A tiny backstory-like thing for Lyuba. One of the moments that led to Lyuba decide that they are going to be kind.Prompt 6/25 of the Good Things Happen Bingo.





	The Truth Smells like Asphalt

The dull scraping of November settles over the city, dry but damp both at once. The coldness is smothered by a blanket of industrial warmth. Stunted houses cling to the edges of a street, the carcass of a crumbling neighbourhood.

  
The sun slithers slowly over the concrete sidewalk, grey tufts of grass sprouting from a spiderweb of cracks. A pair of worn boots, seams running and leather noses covered with chalk and dust, stretch out onto the road. Sneakers, a couple of sizes too big, a couple of shades too sunbleached, softly tap a bottle.

  
"Wild story, kid. Wild."

  
"You think so?"

Knobby fingers, skin wrinkled and rough, grab a hold of the bottle.

"I knew the government did some fucked up shit but..." A whistle, something between a deflating balloon and the coughing of a car engine. "Didn't know they's growing people in jars. Always thought we'd go to the Moon first."

  
"The Moon Project was delayed indefinitely. I was there when they signed the papers."

"Really? Tha's a shame. Who pocketed the dough then?"

"Spent it on the president's new villa. They said the pool was pear-shaped but I think it looked more like a dick."

"Wild. Dicks soaking in dick pools." Fingers grip the glass neck, strength long ebbed away, slipping and slipping around the cork. "Lend a hand?"

"Sure." Fingers, very much different from the others, reach out. Tiny scars, many of them fresh, few of them old, peeking out behind bandages and sleeves. A short *bop* and the bottle opens.

"Thankya." Slow gulps, steady and familiar. Years of practice. The smell of ethanol. "Want some?"

"Mhmm? Ah, no. No."

"Eh, suit yourself." Another swig. "So, you angry at them farmers? 'Cause, wowie, didn't they fuck up!"

Silence. Scarred hands digging into the concrete, skin chafing raw.

"They... created me. I wouldn't be if not for them. I..."

"Feel like you owe them, no?" Wrinkled eyes look up from the horizon. Everything is just wrinkles after wrinkles in that face, aged too fast by misfortune and coincidence.

Pink and red stripes, to turn white, brown and purple with years. No pain, only a deep buzzing. Hands run over a shaved head, over heavy-lidded eyes, over chapped lips. A breath. Two. Three. The distant sound of car alarms.

"I owe them nothing. Not even my anger."

"I'll drink to that."


End file.
